The Sins of Tragedies
by mktellstales
Summary: John Watson came home from the war in bad enough shape to need to get some help. While in rehab, Graham Archer, The UK's favourite detective (played by Sherlock Holmes on the telly) is his roommate. Together, they face the sins of their tragedies in a journey to become whole again.


Dr. John Watson had gotten used to looking into a dying man's eyes and telling him that he would be okay. The first time he almost believed it to be true. It wasn't until later that night, after he had scrubbed the blood from his hands, and was lying on his cot, that he realised he had only hoped it to be true. And in war, despite the absolute need for it, there was no room for hope. From that day on, John was careful to never believe himself again.

He has started to keep track-there was no way that one couldn't-of how many lives he had saved, and how many he had to watch slip away, because that's what it was; he could have saved them if only he wasn't in the middle of the God damned desert, but he was, and most of the men and women that came into his care, he could do nothing for them but hold their hand, slip in the morphine, and tell them that it was going to be alright, that it was all fine.

The thing about war, is that it doesn't haunt you while you're in it, but the moment that your boots hit the asphalt of home, bits and pieces of that world you were supposed to have left behind, start to creep in and take over the life you came back to; the one you stayed alive for. It happened to John, as it happened to so many others, only maybe, he was a little bit better at believing himself when he said that everything was fine.

It took finding himself with an empty bottle of what had been his sister's vodka and his service pistol in his hand for him to realise that he was wrong.

Watson's didn't like help, as was evident by the string of coping alcoholics the clan had been leaving behind for decades, but John was a doctor, he was a soldier. He had always been better than the lot of them, and he sure as hell wasn't going to end up like them.

The facility was nice. Much nicer than even any hotel he had ever stayed in. The floors in the lobby, and the common eating area were a polished, white tile, which, for as often as he figured they got covered in sick, gleaned as if they were brand new. The common areas, such as the telly room, and the game room had a plush, unassuming blue carpet, somewhat akin to the imagined color of the Atlantic Ocean. And the bedrooms, well John's at least, we're made for two. Full sized beds pushed against either side of the wall, white crisp sheets, and pale yellow duvets. There was art on the walls, a shared table underneath the window between the beds, and two desks.

John was alone his first four days there. He set up his books against the wall on top of his desk, set out a pad of paper and some pens as well. He was surprised that he was allowed to have the fine point pens, but that they had taken his dog tags upon checking in.

After four days, John got a roommate.

A kid, no older than eighteen, though he told John he was twenty three. He was the son of a barrister, given the choice of rehab or prison over a charge of selling prescription medication, and being high as a kite when he had gotten picked up. The kid liked to talk a lot; complain about his rich life and his rich family. John politely listened and nodded, holding back the urge to punch him square in the jaw, and tell him that he had no right to complain, because he had no idea what was even worthy of grievance.

But as quickly as the kid seemed to come, he was gone. He had been caught nicking the cups of medication, and popping them like breath mints in the telly room.

John was alone again, and quite thankful too.

He had developed a routine; wake up at six, shower at six fifteen, tea and toast at seven. Then, he would take a walk through the garden, and go to his first group meeting at nine. After that, he returned to his room to read, and slide in and out of consciousness for a while until lunch. Then, it was one on one therapy, followed by more reading, another group session, and dinner.

After dinner, he watched telly for a while-whatever someone else was watching-talked with Mary, the nymphomaniac, took his pills, and went into his room to read some more until he fell asleep around nine thirty. It was the same thing every day for two weeks.

And then, it all changed.

It was a Tuesday morning, and John was coming back from his group session. It had been raining the night before, and for of the morning, so he decided to skip his walk in favour of sneaking in a kip. The night before had been rough for sleeping. The nightmares that seemed to have subsided had come back, and kept him tossing and turning; sweating into his pillow and crying out, being met with nothing but darkness and quiet when he finally jolted out of his sleep.

The door to his room was ajar just slightly, which wasn't really odd. The orderlies, who doubled as security often went through the patient's rooms at random to check for illegal substances or anything that they could use to hurt themselves with, and they didn't always get the door closed all the way when they left. But John's room had just been gone through two days earlier. He couldn't imagine what they would be looking for again.

He pushed the door open, expecting to find some of his things out of place, but instead, he saw a man; a tall, lean man with wild dark curls standing over the bed that had been empty that morning when he got up, but was now covered in a mess of black trousers and an array of colored button ups.

It seemed he had a new roommate.

"Hello." John said to him, walking into the room, and sitting down on his bed.

The man, intently focused on the separation of his clothes from his suitcase, didn't say anything in return to John's greeting, though, he did make a slight grunting noise that could have been some sort of acknowledgement. John wasn't surprised. Most of the people who checked in, whether voluntarily or forced in by some other circumstance, were either coming down from a high or still riding it. But, whichever one it was, they weren't very much in the mood for conversation or polite pleasantries.

John let him be, scooted back in his bed, and picked up the book he had started the night before; some fantasy novel Harry had brought with her on her last visit. John had quickly gone through the bag he had brought with him, and wasn't being picky anymore; just as long as it kept his mind on something else other than the present from time to time.

John couldn't help himself looking over the top of the pages at the man who was now swanning back and forth between his bed and his closet. There was something familiar about him; something that John thought he had seen before, but the man was obviously posh, obviously cut from the upper crust, and John rarely, if ever, had associated with the likes of a man like him.

But still, there was something there.

Then, as the man turned to set something down on the night table between the two beds, and John got a look at his face, it him.

"Oh my God-" he said, "You're Graham Archer."

Graham Archer was the UK's favorite detective. John had never missed an episode. Even in the deserts of Afghanistan, he and some of the Private's had rigged a signal to their small television just to watch the conclusion of the latest series to see the bad boy detective watch his pretty blonde partner die in a gunfight that he had sent her to; helpless to do anything.

"Actually, I'm Sherlock Holmes." the man said, not quite snapping it out between his teeth, but pushing a great deal of aggravation with the word none the less.

"Right. I'm sorry." John felt like an idiot. That probably happened to him all the time; his own identity confused with and forgotten with that of a character he played. "Of course you are." He shook his head at himself, "I'm John. John Watson."

John held out his hand, his book now resting on his knee. Sherlock took a step closer to John, but he didn't take the hand that was offered out to him. Instead, he was staring; scanning. John felt warm underneath the gaze, alleviated only by moments when Sherlock's eyes scanned that half of the room at John's books and papers.

"Yes, you are." Sherlock finally said. "Dr. John Watson, in fact, recently returned from Afghanistan, or possibly Iraq. You weren't just a medic, but were a soldier as well; likely ranking somewhere higher than a Private. Civilian life wasn't really doing it for you, nor was living with your older brother, whom you don't get along with, and how could you when he is an alcoholic as well? Now, you're here; PTSD and alcoholism."

John stared at him for a moment, as he continued to stare at John, his eyes still searching; looking for something he may have missed, and waiting for confirmation that he hadn't.

"That was...amazing." he managed to say, his mouth hanging open.

Sherlock smiled, and turned back to the few articles of clothes still left on his bed.

"How did you know all that?" John asked.

"I observed, Dr. Watson."

"Observed?"

"Yes. You have a selection of medical books on your shelf, including Grey's Anatomy. Anyone with a slight interest in the medical field could have a sampling of the latter, but no one owns Grey's Anatomy unless they have been forced to read it and then later examed from it. So, quite obviously you have been to medical school. As for your service, your hands and your face are tan where as your arms and your neck are the standard English pale; you've been abroad, in the sun, but had most of your body covered, so you weren't on holiday. I assumed that you were a ranking officer, because of your demeanor; it doesn't speak to someone who simply took orders, but rather gave them as well. As for your brother, there is a letter started on your desk to Harry."

"Brilliant." John said, before even thinking about it.

"Do you really think so?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, I do. Only-"

"Only what?"

"Harry is short for Harriet; she's my sister."

"SIster!" Sherlock shouted, and slammed down a book of his own he had picked up from his case. "There's always something."

John laughed. It seemed there was much more to Sherlock Holmes than the man he played on telly.


End file.
